


FALLEN STATE

by shootingdaggers



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Canonical Character Death, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Hurt John Watson, Longing, M/M, POV Canon Character, POV John Watson, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-05-07 09:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootingdaggers/pseuds/shootingdaggers
Summary: A classic case of 'be careful what you wish for', as Dr John Watson continues with life after losing Sherlock. That's all he can do. It's not enough for someone who misses the thrill of the battlefield - both in and out of London.That is until he's once again drawn back into similar mystifying territory, only this time he finds himself at the center of the newest case.  Followed by a mysterious figure, rumours of Sherlock's survival and now working for Mycroft, John realises his past isn't truly behind him - someone wants to get his attention, and they'll do it by any means necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \--- Fan Fiction AU timeline / series, taking place after the Reichenbach Fall, because IMO S4 sucked so I'm re-writing it my own way  
> ONGOING SERIES!

_He falls._

_That's all John ever sees. Waving arms as the man in the black coat floats almost agonisingly down in front of him. It may be that he watches it in so much detail that's the most painful – or maybe the thing that creates the heaviest pain is that he can do nothing – absolutely nothing – at all to save him._

John inhaled sharply as he awoke once again to a dark room, heart hammering blood through his ears like a drum and the back of his neck coated in a cold sweat. As he realised the dream of this memory was just that, he sighed a slow breath. Somehow there was no relief to be found in this, just a dull ache. It was a long time since he'd last woken in tears but he had passed beyond that now, going into the realm of numbness and constant fatigue. He was getting over it. He told himself he was moving on and overcoming the demons day by day but it never seemed to get any easier. He just forgot for longer periods of time.

Nine months. John's new routine was wake up. Breathe. Get out of bed. Relieve himself, brush teeth, make sense of the ingredients left in the fridge. End up eating cereal and lukewarm tea because the kettle's on the brink. Sit in armchair and avoid looking at the one opposite. Put the news on and ignore everything they say. Get dressed, try to look normal. Turn the TV off and go to the surgery.

It took a while for the Sherlock storm to pass. The media had practically camped outside, wanting the newest scoop on what the fraud was like to live with, why hadn't John noticed this sooner? Was John in on this?  _"Dr Watson – was there anything between the two of you? Why do you remain so devoted to this man? What next for you, Dr Watson?"_

John had said all he'd needed to say on his blog and chose not to say anything more. Eventually they got bored and left him alone. Sherlock Holmes was put to bed and people lost interest as people often do. John was able to search for a new job. He'd tried out for a few places but hadn't got far, when a tiny practice in Knightsbridge had an opening and apparently he'd been the perfect person.

He'd been there for three months and settled as best he could. Work took his mind off things and the people were pleasant enough. Yes, ok, it might not be as  _exciting_  as his previous job but he was still helping people. Couldn't sniff at that.

It seemed he was a hit at the Surgery as well. Though they knew his past with Sherlock Holmes he proved to be a valued practitioner not only with the staff but the patients. Women seemed to think he was an adorable, kind little puppy and the men believed him to be an honest man and a good soldier. There were the odd few who gave him funny looks now and again because of his association but Watson ignored it. On the rare occasion something was said about it, he kindly told them what to do with their opinion.

Alright, maybe not-so-kindly.

After seeing around twenty patients it was nearing the end of the day and his next patient was a new addition to the practice. John was reluctant to admit it but he enjoyed meeting the new people. He liked to notice things, try and get a feel of them before they'd even spoken. So far he wasn't sure how accurate he'd been. He was sure that noticing faded tea stains on their shirt meant they liked tea and didn't have very good washing powder, but that wasn't terribly informative and he felt he was more assuming than deducing. He preferred reading their files.

Miss Jane Willows was his last patient; 27, born in November, previous history of fainting and low blood pressure. In person she was brunette and quite attractive. Apparently that was all he was able to 'notice' at the moment. She was polite, anyway, as she nervously reached out to take his hand.

"Good afternoon," John smiled as best he could. "I'm Doctor Watson."

"Nice to meet you," said Miss Willows, returning his smile before settling down in the chair to the side of the desk as John got ready. He made a brief introduction, then asked what was ailing Miss Willows. Apparently her dizziness had returned. He took her blood pressure, pulse, checked her ears. The only other thing was her blood sugar and he explained this in detail.

Miss Willows nodded along but John saw her trying to fit the face and the name together. Probably sure she had seen him before, the name ringing a distant bell but surely... couldn't be him.

It wasn't until he stood, walking over to the cabinet that had a strange grey hat on top, that Miss Willows spoke.

"You're Doctor Watson, aren't you?"

John paused, confused by the question. "Yes... ?"

"The blogger."

There it was. John's fingers tensed and he forced himself to flex them. "...yes."

Apparently, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected for Miss Willows looked delighted. "I knew it. I used to read it all the time, it was brilliant. Everything you did..."

"Thank you. Raise your head please?" Having retrieved the torch he'd wanted John shone it in front of the patient's eyes. "And follow the light."

The test was done within around thirty seconds. He went on to explain that a blood sample would need to be taken. The needle was regarded with a slight look of terror to which John assured her there was nothing to be worried about and he'd be as quick as possible. When the needle pinched into her arm she flinched, fidgeted, then apparently had to speak.

"He helped me once –"

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock Holmes." 

John swallowed at the mention of his name then looked to Miss Willows who smiled.

 "Sorry. It was before your time. My father was poisoned. We had no idea why or how. Holmes solved it. Ended up being some weird game our psycho neighbour was playing." John had dipped his head, pretending to focus on drawing the blood. "He was a very brusque man but intelligent. My father's alive because of him. My mother always thought him to be rude anyway, but - I always remembered that he had beautiful eyes."

John gave a soft noise that resembled a laugh as he looked down into a space of nothing while holding the blood sample up to the light. He remembered those eyes, narrowed and fierce, cold but alive with information firing in his mind as he reeled off his deductions with an impressive 'swoosh' of his coat. Eventually John cleared his throat, preparing to continue but Miss Willows raised her hand.

"I don't believe he was a fraud." She could have left it but John knew that look she had on her face. She had been invested in that blog, in the adventures of Holmes and Watson. Now she was near to someone she admired she could finally say what she had been expressing to others if only to assure him. "I know frauds, I work with them every day. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man."

"Yes he was." John snapped out of his reverie and then regarded her with a smile. "I'm going to send off this blood sample and we'll be able to check for any abnormalities, do the routine tests... if you make an appointment with us for a month's time we'll go over the results, okay? Nothing to worry about."

That was the end of that. Miss Willows looked slightly disappointed. Maybe he'd come across a bit - Sherlockian.

Miss Willows nodded, slightly perturbed but polite nonetheless. "Perfect, thank you."

John tapped his pen on the desk, then began to type up his notes, not even watching what he was doing. His patient had gathered her coat, heading towards the door.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?"

Miss Willows had paused at the door, her mouth open as if ready to console him or offer some more words. There were none, and it appeared she knew it even as she smiled. "I'll see you soon."

\------------------------

John returned home at around 7pm. After saying a good evening to Mrs Hudson he proceeded to sling his work bag on the floor before he sank into the armchair. He sat and stared at the television. Some programme where people had to overcome an assault course with big red balls was being repeated and he watched it without really investing anything. Already knowing that he had nothing for dinner he picked up the phone and dialled the local chinese. He didn't even have to state his address or name, and within half an hour he was scooping up fresh chow mein and fighting off the dribbles of sweet and sour sauce from the end of prawn toasts.

"My life is so exciting."

What had he come to? 'Bachelor John Watson sitting at home eating take away dinners watching lions go at it in the Serengeti while David Attenborough commentates because he has nothing better to do.'

He'd tried to follow Sherlock's work. He'd failed miserably because nobody had that mind, that instinct and pure – knowing. John closed his eyes, resting his head on his hand. The house was too empty. There were no random experiments or odd things hidden in random places, no sounds of the violin when he arrived home, or even someone muttering in the corner... the balance was lost. John was lost.

The phone rang.

Almost asleep John fumbled in his pocket and answered. "Dr Watson."

Silence.

"Hello?"

More silence. Or he  _thought_  there was silence until he heard faint breathing on the other end. John sighed. "This is very mature. Almost disappointing, you could at least ask me what I'm wearing." More breathing. "Look. I don't know how you got this number but please lose it."

He hung up, annoyed, and rubbed at his forehead. Withheld number. Was there any other kind?

The audacity of the phone call continued to annoy him for the rest of the nature programme. Why would someone do that, get someone's number and then listen to them bite back. Maybe it was some sick pleasure from listening in, the audio version of voyeur. He was sure there was a word for it. Sherlock would have known.

Ten minutes passed and John fell to sleep in the armchair, the TV playing quietly in the background.

 

\--------

A blonde man smiled slightly, stored the number he'd dialed moments ago and popped the phone into his pocket. He walked over to the window, wiping his glasses on his jumper.

London was beautiful at night.

Baker Street, especially.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Good People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year to the day, and John still can't escape the shadow of the past

It was October. A year to the day. John Watson sat before his therapist not saying a word and chewing the inside of his cheek. She waited patiently, studying him. If she were to analyse this correctly she'd wager that he was here not to talk, but to get away from the flat. Silence was the loudest scream in many ways. She shifted forwards.

"I know it's difficult." John made a huffing noise in response. "Is there anything you believe you should have done this year? Anything you would change?"

John considered this for a long moment. He'd change a lot of things. Coming here, for one, because it wasn't doing anything to help him. He should have gone to his sister's but then she'd question him and it was too much to bear going through it all. One year. It didn't seem that long at all. Felt like only a month had passed when he thought about it. He should have visited the grave more, maybe spent more time with Mrs Hudson.

"I would... eat a lot less Chinese. Clean the flat more. Maybe get a dog, or a cat. I like cats."

Clearly this hadn't been what the therapist had intended but it was an answer all the same. "Anything you're proud of?"

It took John two seconds this time. "I got a job." He paused. "Yeah that's what I'm proud of. I'm damn good at it too."

"New friends?"

"Yes. Yep."

"How do you find working with your patients?"

John considered this a moment. He could have said boring, because that's what most of the job was like. He didn't want patients he wanted clients, though he didn't think they were too dissimilar. Both had a case they needed solving but with his patients, it was vastly health related and simple to resolve.

Instead he said, "Soothing. I like that I'm still able to help people."

This pleased his therapist and she nodded. "Getting satisfaction out of one area of your life is good, John. It helps you focus and helps you deal with other things you may feel difficult at times. We'll meet again next week."

John returned to the apartment which was no longer home. It was more his residence, the place he could sleep. For that reason it was more like a free hotel without the maids and room service. Mrs Hudson had taken to giving him space but he wasn't quite sure it was space that he wanted.

Because it was so spacious he thought that maybe he should really get a cat. Sherlock had never wanted pets, didn't see the point in them. John had never argued because he realised that the place wasn't a very habitable or normal one that a pet would deserve, but the temptation was there now. As he threw his keys on the table he was mulling over this option, when he was surprised to see a letter addressed to him.

He got the odd bill, mis-addressed because Mycroft was still taking care of things finance wise. It was the least he could do in the circumstances he'd said. John knew that he felt as guilty as sin itself but he didn't want to admit that he was somewhat responsible.

Since it wasn't from Mycroft, John released his grip on the envelope then tore it open.

_You sounded annoyed._

"" _!_

One sheet of paper, nothing else on it but those three words, signed in a code of punctuation John didn't understand. He turned it over to study it, see if there were any clues but of course there were none. When had he sounded annoyed? Probably most of the time, he'd become rather snappish lately.

Shrugging he threw the letter back on the table. Bless Mrs Hudson for her internal postal runs. Looked like she'd cleaned up a little too, allowing John to settle in for the night without too much trouble and forgetting the little note burning a hole in his table.

\----------

Jane Willows, 27, brunette, born in November, patient of Doctor John Watson, strolled the London streets with a spring in her step. The day was bright, she had a month til her birthday and her friends were planning a surprise party for her at the local pub. Of course she hadn't let on that she knew but it was a nice feeling. She'd felt much better ever since Doctor Watson had diagnosed her.

Her frequent fainting hadn't been diabetes like she'd been worried about, merely the fact that she'd missed two of her three meals a day for two weeks or more while she worked on the big advertising campaign at work. Now she'd learnt her lesson she could focus on her assignment.

The new guy at work seemed very friendly and he opened the door for her as she walked inside. Sort of cute, too; blonde hair, crystal blue eyes if a bit skinny all in all. He was shadowing her while she took on one of their bigger clients. As he made her a cup of tea he shoved his glasses up his nose with one finger, trying to avoid getting them steamed from the kettle.

"Are you feeling alright now?" Peter asked her. When she looked up he clarified: "The fainting? Light headedness... nothing serious?"

"Oh! No, so long as I remember to eat something more than two hundred calories three times a day I should be quite alright."

"So no more visits to the Doctor for you."

"Not if I can help it, no."

The blonde gave her an odd sort of smile which Jane supposed was just nerves. He handed her the tea and she thanked him as he sat down opposite, looking over the proposals. Unnoticed by her his blue eyes scanned the text and then set her; so engrossed was she in proof reading her own presentation notes she jumped when he spoke.

"You misspelt 'categorically'." He gave her a soft, reassuring smile when she looked for her mistake. "Just there. Sorry, I'm sort of a grammar Nazi."

The misspelt word was upside down, in size ten text and the document closest to her. Getting over her flustered state she chuckled, shaking her head. "That's what we need around here. Clients take no prisoners, if there's a mistake please let me know."

Peter gave a laugh and nodded. "Very well."

Two hours later, with the whole document almost entirely re-written and the copies neatly fastened in an immaculate way, Jane stood ready to enter the board room to present her most recent concept for the campaign when she suddenly felt rather odd. It was nerves, that was all. Peter gave her a silent thumbs up which she returned with a lacklustre smile, feeling her body drain completely.

Ten minutes later she awoke with a mask over her face, breathing in fresh oxygen from a tank. She was still at the office and had apparently been awake the whole time but her eyes now held her conscious state of awareness.

"Thank God," said a balding man, her boss, who was by her side. A paramedic in a green suit shone a torch into her face at which she grimaced. "We wondered what the hell was wrong, Jane...!"

Jane removed the mask, wincing. "I'm a little confused myself..."

"We'll take you for overnight observation, ok Ms Willows?" said the paramedic. Jane found herself agreeing to it, but she was still in a daze. One minute she was standing, the next...

"The presentation... oh god, Larry..."

"It's alright! Peter stood up to the mark, he's still in there now presenting your work, the board are fully aware of what's happened."

Without further argument Jane was ushered into the back of an ambulance and taken to the hospital. She was asked routine health questions, felt better every moment but she knew that this was possibly a false alarm. The feeling of dizziness was not as dense or soul destroying as the one of failure, at having worked so damned hard just to be unable to physically present her blood, sweat and tears and be damn well proud of it.

Spending the night staring at white ceilings, Jane did nothing but dwell on it.

\-----------------

Six am. John awoke to the sound of his phone vibrating on the bedside table. At first he thought it was a dream. Nobody ever called him at this time of night any more. But the more the ringtone trilled the more he stirred. When he picked up and felt the cold case in his fingers he knew he wasn't imagining it.

He managed to mumble something that sounded remotely like "Hello?"

There was silence, then a breath. John recognised this from a few months ago but his thoughts couldn't join with his mouth to make a comment. Apparently he didn't need to.

"Do you know what happens to good people, Mr Watson?"

He didn't recognise this voice, a man's voice, deep and dreamy. John sat up in bed, the springs giving a creak under his weight. "Who is this?"

"Bad things. Terrible things."

He put the phone from his face and tried to see the number; withheld. "Sorry but I was sort of in the middle of something... sleep, it's called, you might like to try it."

"You sound annoyed again."

The note. John was waking up more every moment. "What do you want?"

"Irrelevant questions, all irrelevant – are you losing your touch? Or was it Holmes' all along?"

"What questions should I be asking?"

There was a chuckle on the other end. "Good boy... co-operation, thinking on your feet – or in your bed."

"Why did you send me that note?" There was no reply to this. "The letter, why did you send it if you were only going to ring me afterwards?" Still silence. With no chance at all of dropping back to sleep John swung his legs over the side of the bed, glaring into the darkness. "What game are you trying to play?"

The dial tone signalled the end of the conversation and John stared at his phone, a glowing white beacon in the center of the room. John switched it off, trying to calm his breaths. He'd thought he would be rid of mystery and nutters who liked to toy with people. Apparently there were more out there, always more, and this one happened to find John's number.

For the first time in weeks instinct kicked in and he scrolled through the phone, standing up and heading to the door. He crossed the hall, went to walk into Sherlock's room to alert him of this development, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock wasn't in there. He hadn't been for twelve long months, yet somehow John had quite forgotten this fact in the need to share the phone call with someone who'd understand. The only person who ever understood. His hand hovered over the doorknob, as though to touch it would mean to be electrocuted. Slowly he withdrew and let his hands fall to his sides. 

It was the closest felt to crying in a long time.

 


	3. Your Country Needs You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lestrade can't do what you can."
> 
> "Which is?"
> 
> "Lure him out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of Mycroft Holmes and the promise of a case

 

The main hall of Scotland Yard hadn't changed. Of course John was more used to being escorted straight through all the security procedures when he wanted to see Lestrade, rather than hang around. Still, he couldn't help but reflect on the fact the walls had the same faded blue colour, a chip out of one of the ceiling tiles hadn't been replaced. Out of date security posters hung everywhere, a few new ones appealing for information. John read them all – out of curiosity as well as a need for distraction. Eventually someone had been able to verify that he was indeed Doctor John Watson and he was informed with a stern, begrudging smile by the receptionist that Lestrade was able to see him.

It was an odd feeling, walking through the offices as a single party. Even stranger that he felt nervous. Hands ballsed by his sides, John waited to be introduced by the clerk but Lestrade was already striding towards his office door.

"John!" Lestrade grabbed John's arm before he had a choice in the matter. In a moment of confusion the detective appeared to second-guess himself and instead of pulling John into a hug he merely distant-patted his shoulder. "Good to see you."

"Good to see you too," smiled John. And it was a genuine smile at that. If anything the moment made him wish he'd met up with him sooner rather than keeping a hermit-like distance. John pointed to the stack of papers on Lestrade's desk. "Business as usual?"

"Unfortunately." Lestrade nodded to the clerk that all was ok and closed the door "What can I do for you?"

It must have been the furrow in John's brow that gave him away. "Who says this isn't a social call?"

The look on Lestrade's face became sombre. "You've had twelve months to make a social call. I figured it must be important to come and see me, especially given - anyway," said the Inspector, gesturing for John to sit. "Tell me what troubles you."

John hadn't planned for this. Small talk, dancing around the subject, then a casual request for assistance – he had that down pat. At least it was more polite. But it seemed Lestrade wanted to cut straight to the point nowadays. Come to think of it, John used to do that more often. Now he'd become – flowery. 

He was stalling. This wasn't a therapy session. "I've had strange calls on my personal phone," he said softly. "Two so far. I also got an odd note shoved under my door, which the caller mentioned when I spoke to them last time."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Caller ID?"

"Withheld."

"And they threatened you?"

"Indirectly speaking." John felt foolish. Two calls from a random loon weren't reason to waste police time but without direction or Sherlock to go to, he'd had to find someone else.

At least Lestrade didn't appear disappointed to be brought so little a case. In fact he looked pleased.

"I'm glad you came to me."

John forced a small smile on his face. Well, he wasn't about to tell the Inspector he'd not been his first choice - that Lestrade simply had the benefit of being more accessible than Holmes' brother.

"What did the caller say exactly?" asked Lestrade, picking up his mug.

John thought back to the early morning hours, the hiss of the voice ringing in his ears. He'd not slept since, the sentences replaying in his mind. "Said bad things happen to good people. That he'd sent the note to me, I was asking all the wrong questions. Sounded like some game to him. He mentioned – Sherlock. Could be some desperate nutter wanting a headline. Probably is, but-"

"- but you and I both know the difference between a nutter out for attention and a potential psychopath."

The look shared between them was one of understanding, passed in silence. Then Lestrade broke it with a gesture.

"Do you still have the note?"

John nodded and retrieved the note from his pocket. He'd sealed it tight in a sandwich bag which Lestrade thankfully didn't mention. In fact the Inspector took it with a frown furrowing his face. If Sherlock had been there he'd have said what paper, what gender, when, where, why – all Lestrade did was hum and make a noise as he sipped from his mug.

The longer Lestrade looked at the letter the more impatient John became.

"Can you do anything with it?"

Infuriatingly, Lestrade looked doubtful but he covered a second late with a nod. "I'll get my team on to it. See what they can find out, fingerprints, run them through the system. Might take a few days. In the meantime ring your network provider, get their Nuisance Caller team to set up a log. They can trace the withheld numbers directly from there."

So little to be done and John would have to wait. Again he reasoned to himself that there was nothing there. It was a bored individual who wanted to annoy him, remind him of what had happened a year ago. Except John didn't need reminding. It wasn't like he forgot that moment. Ever. Not like it didn't still sit rotting in his chest like the echo in an empty space...

"John?"

John lifted his eyes to Lestrade who'd still been speaking to him. John had missed every word. "Sorry. Didn't get much sleep. What were you saying?"

"I said  _how are you_? In general?"

Oh, the things Lestrade could open with that door. John gave him the best smile he could. A perfect reflection of old-self John, tickety-boo John, masterfully covering why-the-fuck-did-I-come-here John.

"I'm fine."

Whether Lestrade believed him or not he let it pass by without argument. John took the opportunity to leave, shaking Lestrade's hand again before he walked out, unescorted and unenthusiastic. He wouldn't say it had been a waste of time.... Actually yes, he would, it had probably been a complete waste of time and energy. He had half a mind to turn straight back around and get the note back off Lestrade then burn it in his fire. Change his number, finally get out of the flat, move closer to work, anything.

Annoyance morphed into anger and all John could do was breathe deeply to steady himself. As he left the glass doors of Scotland Yard the fresh air did nothing to quell his temper and he stood for several moments, trying to complete the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him.

He didn't notice the shuffle of another presence, scuffling away from the bins towards John with a wobbly gait. A gravelly voice came from the hunched man who, when he spoke, smelled of day-old whiskey and wet dog.

"Do you haff the time, sir?"

Jolted, John tried not to wrinkle his nose at the intrusion. The homeless network had been invaluable in previous cases and he had a great respect for many of them.

"Er – ten thirty."

"Thanking you kindly, sir."

John gave the man a nod, expecting that to be it. But then again he was used to not having his expectations met, and the man stuck around, breathing more potent stench into the air.

"Busy day?"

John attempted a smile. "Not as busy as I'd hoped." Maybe the man recognised him from the old days, when Sherlock stuffed the homeless £50 notes for their efforts. Unfortunately for this man, John wasn't half as flash with the cash. Mainly because he didn't have any. "Must be going," he said, and then with a tip of his head. "Have a good day."

"Same to you, sir! Same to you."

John walked away from the man as quickly as possible, hands tucked into his jacket, shoulders hunched. People mostly stopped recognising him now. The new constables on the force weren't familiar with his history and as he passed them they merely chattered amongst themselves. Anonymity was a funny thing. On the one hand he enjoyed it. Nobody spoke to him and he didn't speak to anyone else. On the other, he'd gladly welcome back the pandemonium if it meant Sherlock Holmes was alive.

The walk back to Baker Street was long, just what he needed. The pace of the people around him soothed his mind; they went about their business, ignorant of criminal underworlds and weirdos and life after Sherlock Holmes. Ignorance wasn't bliss, it was a whole other way of life. John could never regain it, not after what he'd seen.

His thoughts drifted much the same as he did but just before he turned to a side street John caught sight of a familiar figure. She was ten feet ahead, attention on her phone, fingers tapping constantly. Her pencil-straight skirt, her aura that of an important PA – but there was only one important PA John had ever known to stand around next to a glossy black car immersed in her Blackberry. Ignoring his turn left for home, John crossed over. She didn't even raise her head as he approached.

"Hello Anthea."

It took a moment but she replied with a brief flash of polite professionalism. "Hello."

There was no need to beat around the bush with this one. "The usual, I take it?"

Anthea merely hummed and walked towards the car. John took it as a yes. It might have been a while since John had been not-really-requested to an audience with Mycroft, but the man's style hadn't changed.

London always looked different from behind shaded glass. The bright lights dimmed, muting the harsh vibrancy of the outside world. The cushy interior of the car could make anyone feel a little safer. One time John had felt incredibly important travelling in this car. Only the once. Sherlock had noticed his air of superiority and slapped him back down with a stinging quip about the common man. There was apparently room for only one ego. John smiled at the memory. At the time he'd wanted to deck him.

Instead of a familiar haunt Mycroft chose a different gentleman's club, one which oozed even more luxury from its walls. If Mycroft wanted to keep a low profile he was doing a piss-poor job of it. Having been escorted through wine-red corridors, the smell of whiskey and leather-bound books wafting through, John was shown into an ornately decorated room. Jade curtains were drawn, the only light coming from a large fire and the ornamental desk lamp. Mycroft did so love to set the mood and there he sat, in a chair with a towering back, King of the Castle.

Or the Queen, depending on who you asked.

"John," said Mycroft, not bothering to stand. "Pleasant surprise to see you."

"The surprise is all mine," said John, sitting in the opposite chair with a small sigh. Mycroft was smiling, watching him. His eyes weren't nearly the same as Sherlock's but the similar studious stare was enough to make John uncomfortable. Moments passed in silence. Patience wasn't John's middle name. "Can we make this quick? I've got a reservation for lunch."

"No you haven't."

The words stung. John tensed. "Let's make it quick regardless."

Mycroft steepled his fingers and a look of concern – or what he probably thought was concern – fell on his face. "I'm  _worried_  about you, John."

That made John chuckle. "Since when?"

"Since your visit to Scotland Yard today meeting a certain Detective Inspector."

He should have known. Anything around that place would get back to Mycroft. He wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft was having him followed.

Maybe he  _was_  having him followed... the homeless man, any patient at the surgery, could even be the new shopkeeper on the corner. John felt like an idiot. Mycroft must have seen it cross his face because a moment later the Holmes brother was smirking, waiting for him to reply.

"I would have come to you if you weren't so fond of theatrics," said John. "Didn't know whether to send up a flare or storm Silents Anonymous again." His annoyance slipped through in his tone but Mycroft was used to that, like water off a duck's back. A tall, rich duck.

"That's not the kind of attention you want. I understand." Mycroft nodded. "As you may be aware, these are trying times. I am difficult to get hold of for a reason."

"But that reason should not apply to me." John was stern on this point and it took Mycroft by surprise. His brows raised, only slightly, and John felt a sliver of triumph bless his gut. "I appreciate you paying for the flat. I do. And for the bills, and whatever else you secretly help with. But if that – and indeed you whisking me away at the first sign of any trouble – isn't evidence of a guilty conscience then I don't know what is. So maybe don't wait and see how desperate I am for help before offering next time, alright?"

The nose crinkle was back and John couldn't help but smile. Eventually Mycroft conceded him a win and simply glanced at the floor. "I heard you received a few nuisance phone calls."

John tilted his head. "Heard as in someone told you or heard as in tapped my phone?"

Mycroft stiffened at that, his aloofness returning. "I am not completely without tact, Doctor Watson. Privacy is rare these days and I afford it to those I value whenever I can. But I am concerned this individual found your number."

"So am I."

Mycroft reached to the table beside him and picked up a thin manila file which he offered to John. "We know his number and that he called you from Covent Garden."

John didn't take the offer. "Thank you. Can you stop him ringing me now?"

"I don't think that's in either of our best interests."

"Sorry?"

"You've been itching for this, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft. The annoying smile was back, the one which John had imagined wiping from his face for a long time. "Another case, a taste of the reckless life which was taken from you. Besides, I am very busy and while I wish I could help further..."

"I'm not in the 'case' business any more, if you remember. Why don't you give that to Lestrade?"

"Lestrade can't do what you can."

"Which is?"

"Lure him out." Mycroft gestured with the file.

The penny dropped. John started to laugh, shaking his head. Of course. "You know who it is."

Mycroft nodded. "I do."

"And he's important enough that you whisked me away to your money-den with pleasantries to honey me up. I'm not  _bait_."

"On the contrary! He already found you. That makes you a _target_. You're being dangled on the line whether you accept this or not. I just request that you do."

Mycroft placed the file back on the table beside them. John stared at it. Memories flooded back, of assassins and spies, running – so much running – gunpoint, gunshots, exhilaration, the battlefield of London.  _Run, run, run!_

John swallowed. If anyone knew him better than himself, their last name was always Holmes. "What guarantees do I have that this won't turn nasty?"

"None." Mycroft was always honest. Too honest, sometimes. But the glimmer in his eyes was, at least, one of genuine concern. "That hasn't stopped you before. I doubt it will now."

John wished it would take him longer to decide but he reached for the file within a few moments, tapping his hands against the cover. Mycroft simply oozed smugness.

"Don't worry," said Mycroft quietly, "we'll be keeping a close eye on this one."

That wasn't as reassuring as Mycroft wanted it to be. John stood, tucking the file under his arm. Ignorance. What he wouldn't give for it now. Just a taste of it. No confirmation that men in suits passed secrets to others, orchestrating the world from within velvet walls with eighty-year-old whiskey on tap.

There was one thing, though. John paused at the door. "For what it's worth," he began, quiet into the room, "I appreciate you not saying 'your country needs you'."

He left after seeing Mycroft's wry smile, but unfortunately missed the whispered reply of ' _But it does John._

_More than you realise.'_

 


	4. And What Of Consequences?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sod it, sod it, sod it, sod it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for a ) taking so long to update this! Real life caused my hard drive to fry, and so here I am
> 
> and b) posting the wrong chapter... cause... special. Thank you so much for your patience and feedback!

_\----------------------------------------------------_

The manila envelope Mycroft had so eloquently gifted to him a week before sat on the table in the flat of 221B unopened. A coffee-cup ring stained the outer corner, and a crinkle folded the bottom hem where Mrs Hudson had caught it setting down the tea tray.

Despite the mystery of the contents pulling at his adrenaline junkie heartstrings, John held doubts about what type of worms opening the can would unleash. He hadn't fully discounted doing Mycroft's bidding. He'd reached for the file so many times it had been dropped on almost every surface of the flat. The kitchen table, the mantle, Sherlock's chair, the top of the television. John held it, walked around the flat with it, and then cast it aside when his thoughts became too heavy. 

This night he'd almost opened it. His fingers grazed over the seal, knowing that once broken he could never go back. He'd be in Mycroft's pocket yet again - not that he wasn't already - and he'd be going down a rabbit hole not knowing what to expect.

Too many considerations snapped through his mind and he'd discarded it, choosing instead to watch an inane judging panel coo about some off-key singer dressed as a sparkly meringue. The thoughts came back soon enough. 

One - what if he couldn't lure this maniac out like Mycroft said he could? Two – what would he actually do once the maniac was lured out? Three – there were always consequences. No matter how much they'd saved the day, the fallout wasn't something he could ever predict. They still left people shattered in their wake.

They. Ha.

John Watson wasn't a 'they' anymore. Wasn't a 'we', an 'us', an anything. He was a doddery fool, sitting in the same armchair watching the same shit telly, ignoring the file which may have well have been on fire in the background for the hole it was burning in the back of his mind.

His phone rang.

John had taken to being cautious before answering since his meeting with Mycroft. It gave him time to prepare for unknown numbers. This time, he was glad of it. 

"Yes?" he answered, clipped.

"So grumpy."

John closed his eyes. The voice of the other man set his teeth on edge, a bubble of hatred rising in bile to the middle of his throat. He suppressed it. "You pick your moments. It's The X Factor, can you ring on the ad break?" 

There was silence. John turned to look at the file behind him. He should have read it. He should have taken a look, seen what information he could use. Become prepared. No matter what can of worms it unleashed onto him, if there was a chance he stop it unleashing on other people there was no excuse not to armour himself for this. 

Lure him out. Lure  _who_  out?

Well there was no chance he could find out now. If he opened the file the guy would hear. John turned up the volume on the television to make a point. "It's Louise. Very talented, don't know why Simon's her mentor, though." 

"Lestrade won't find anything."

John went quiet. Deathly quiet. His tormentor seemed to delight in it. 

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, Mr Watson. I thought it would be a courtesy to let you know. Eyes and ears -  _everywhere._  Very similar to your dearly departed friend, no?"

Chatty little bastard now, wasn't he? John had long since stepped his toe in the ocean of fluent weirdo. He was used to this. John sucked in a breath.  

"If this takes much longer I'll have to pause the sing-off."

"Don't sound so bored of me just yet, Mr Watson," the man growled, his voice changing to a baritone where his R's rolled and his arrogance shone. "This is only just the beginning. I have much in store for you."

John snorted. "If you're done vaguely threatening me this evening, I'll be hanging up now. Oh and by the way - it's  _Doctor_   Watson. You're stalking me, the least you can do is get my name right."

He hung up. In fact he didn't just hang up. John stood, phone in hand, and threw it straight at his chair. It bounced off the cushions and onto the floor, clattering in time with the bassline pounding from the TV. John wanted to stamp on it. Rip it. Smash it against the wall, throw it out the window, anything to vent his frustration. Slamming down the phone didn't have the same drama on mobiles. 

No matter his attempts at normal life he always found himself back here, surrounded by puppet masters who wanted him on their strings. He couldn't escape. An anonymous voice on the phone one minute, criminal mastermind the next. He'd bet money on the fact he couldn't take a crap without someone noticing and reporting it back to either Mycroft or an underworld lord. 

John turned to look at the file again. Fists clenched into balls of pure hatred but not for Mycroft. No. This time it was for just how predictable  _Doctor_ John Watson really was.

"Sod it."

Sod the phone calls, sod the consequences.

_Sod it, sod it, sod it, sod it._

John ripped the seal and ripped out the contents, a few black and white photos cascading onto the floor as the papers flapped in his fingers. He didn't recognise the name -  _Moran?_  Criminal history as long as John's arm. Sparse notes on sightings, the last being 2010, notable (almost impressive) criminal network associations.

The doctor wasn't sure what to feel as he stared at the man who had him in his sights. A slippery rat of London's dark sewers, untraceable - no wonder Mycroft wanted John to lure him out - with many hard-up London residents being in his pockets.

The homeless man. Of course. That's how 'Creepy Inc' knew John visited Lestrade. If Moran had such a boycrush on Holmes then it was natural he'd use the same methods to spy on John.

His phone rang again. Without even thinking John grabbed it and growled into the handset.

"Don't you think you've had enough fun for one night...?"

"Dr Watson?" 

He paused as the gentle voice trembled over the phone. It most definitely wasn't Moran. "Yes?"

"So sorry to ring you but it's one of your patients, Jane Willows, she was with us for a meeting and she's collapsed. The ambulance is on its way but you were the only contact in her phone and - "

John tried to shake the anger at Moran from his mind. "What - where is she?" 

"Knightsbridge Village, we were asking her about marketing our services because she seemed to  _really_  get the project, she's an absolute delight! It was going really well then she just - boom. Fell over. All the ladies are  _very_  concerned, I don't suppose you live near Knightsbridge at all?"

John had already grabbed his coat as the woman babbled and slung it over his arms. "I'm fifteen minutes away, text me the address if you can."

"Of course," said the woman, pausing before she added, "I wasn't sure whether you still lived at Baker Street, you see. You  _are_  the same Dr Watson?"

John forced a retort back down, taking the steps two at a time. "Tell the ambulance to wait until I get there. I'm on my way."

\-------------------------------------------

By the time John got to Knightsbridge Village he saw the emergency lights flashing in the opposite direction. The company of women in Knightsbridge Village were more interested in grilling him over his events through Baker Street than they were about Miss Willows, something he'd allow himself to be annoyed about later. He re-flagged the cab he'd just jumped out of and in a secretly-thrilling moment told the driver to 'follow that ambulance!'. 

It was only in the quiet of the hospital hallway that John wondered why he'd chased after an ambulance speeding away one of his patients, one he didn't even know very well. He could have put it down to sentimentality. He'd been accused many times of caring too much, most occasions he'd argued against. Perhaps it wasn't too far from the truth. Caring gave him purpose. As guilty as it made him feel, having something other than his own problems to worry about was a welcome relief. No tugging on the strings, no shadows to be afraid of. Just doing his moral duty as a doctor and, according to the women Miss Willows had visited, the only personal contact in someone's life. 

Déjá Vu if ever there was one.

As specialists ran routine tests in the room opposite a rustle to John's left caught his attention. A tall man, ice-blonde and professionally dressed, approached holding a large bouquet of flowers. He hovered by John's side, looking down upon him. John stood  to meet him.

"You're here for Jane?" said the man. John nodded. Instead of his hand, the man held the flowers out for John to take. "Please give her these." 

The bouquet was expensive. Lilies and blue flowers, purples and pinks, all intertwined with green stalks and tied with a cream bow. This wasn't a last-minute petrol station panic-buy. "Of course. Er...?"

"Peter. Colleague of hers," he said quietly, Cambridge accent shining through. Steel blue eyes searched John's face for a reaction. It was like he expected John to recognise him. A smile crossed his face erasing the odd look in what John read to be relief. "You must be Doctor Watson."

John paused. "She's mentioned me?"

"She has. Sung your praises all around the office for your superior care. It's a shame. I don't think she would have anticipated this. Almost cost her a promotion recently, but I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it."

"Right," said John. Something bugged him, like an itch in the back of his mind but he couldn't put his finger on it. The way the guy stared made John shift, uncomfortable. "I don't have to be here, if you want to visit her privately..?"

"Oh, no," said Peter, laughing. "I'll leave her be for the evening. All she needs is you, I believe."

There was an uncomfortable silence, one in which John tried to place his face. Nothing registered. How he wished he had a mind palace of his own. He didn't even have a mind-shed. Frustrated, John nevertheless attempted a smile and waved the flowers. "Well I'll pass on the message that you came by. I'm sure she'll appreciate it."

Peter nodded but didn't move until a few seconds later, sidestepping around John like a cat stalking a mouse. He was tall enough for the comparison, yet John squared his shoulders. No matter if he had pollen up his nose, he wasn't going to show uncertainty in this man's presence. 

It wasn't until Peter got near the exit doors that something, the very thing John had been bothered about for the last two minutes, clicked. 

"How did you know?" said John after him. "How did you know she was here?"

Peter merely turned his head, waiting. John stepped forwards. 

"They said I was the only contact she had. Who told you she'd collapsed?"

The look that crossed Peter's face chilled Watson to the bone. He tipped his head and gave a mock-salute, stepping backwards through the swinging doors. "Like I said I have eyes and ears everywhere, _Doctor_   Watson. Eyes and ears everywhere _._ "


End file.
